


The Stone Orc

by Zoop (zoop526)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot for Basement Dweller's Prompt. A young Goblin goes on a journey to learn the answer to a riddle.</p><p>Prompt: http://zoopsspoilers.tumblr.com/post/113593432928/prompt-2</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stone Orc

The bravado with which Shumfûrz embarked on his journey waned long before he reached the pass in the mountains, and almost disappeared once he found the marker his elder brother pointed out on the crudely drawn map now clutched in Shum's fist.

 _Look fer 'at old troll,_ Fûrûkil had said. _The way's right under 'is arse._

He'd giggled at the time, but now that he was staring up at the hulking stone form, pale against the night sky, Shum had trouble finding his sense of humor. The troll was frozen in stone under a long-ago sun, yet still bore the cruel snarl on its pitted and worn face, and the outstretched hand of its vain grab for some unlucky prey. At least two fingers had broken off over the course of ages. Tree-trunk-like legs were planted apart, and the other hand was flat on the ground. Shum figured its quarry must've been small, forcing it to bend nearly over to reach for it. A shiver went up his spine; Shum wasn't too terribly large himself, even for an Orc.

But then, some might say Shum wasn't a proper Orc, those 'some' being the big soldier Orcs who liked to push around anything smaller than them. A little runt like Shum, along with his entire clan, would be sneeringly called 'Goblins' and kicked aside. Or kicked into the front lines. Or kicked out of sheer spite. Shum didn't much like those Orcs.

In fact, he didn't care for anything bigger than him, and this troll, though dead, was not to his liking. The sooner he got away from it, the better. Who knew but that it might waken under the moon's light and mistake him for its escaped prey? With that arresting thought, Shum's eyes popped wide and he cowered. Night sounds that went unnoticed as he trekked to this point were suddenly menacing, and seemed to surround the little Goblin. A rustle in the leaves to his left; a skittering rock further up the mountain pass; a breeze kicking up that seemed like a mighty breath drawn in... Shum yelped and dove for the cover of the brambles surrounding the stone figure's huge legs.

He only endured the thorny scratches for a moment before he found himself on a barely discernible path behind the troll. The path, little more than an overgrown game trail, wound its way deeper into the cliffs. Shum's searching gaze followed it as far as he could before a twist ahead hid the path from sight. It was no good consulting his brother's map; the drawing was bad and had already gotten him turned around and lost several times before he finally tripped over a root, rolled down a defile, bounced off several boulders, and landed face down in exactly the right spot: under the furious gaze of the troll.

Had he given it much thought, he might have suspected his brother of purposely directing Shum into exactly that sort of mischief.

Forcing his leaden feet forward, Shum inched along the narrow path, a tight grip on his hunting knife. He must be brave, he reminded himself. If he failed, and ran whimpering back to the den, Fûrûkil would never let him live it down. It would be the favorite tale around every cookfire until Shum's ending, and likely well past his end. _And don't think you can make up some shit,_ his brother had warned. _I'll know if you's lyin'._ Fûrûkil bragged of finding the Stone Orc himself when he was a lad; the little Goblin knew his brother would call him a weakling if he didn't do the same.

It would be worth the switch across his backside for leaving the den, if he could boast of a deed such as _this_.

Curiosity had plagued Shum when Fûrûkil first mentioned the Stone Orc. His brother was a good twenty snowfalls older than Shum, and though many siblings had come between, Fûrûkil seemed taken with Shum more than any. Perhaps it was the little Goblin's unabashed admiration of his brother's deeds, or his naïve belief that everything Fûrûkil said was true. Fûrûkil could tell his scrawny little brother that the sky was green, and Shum would not bother to look up to see if it was so.

Yet even his devotion was not entirely swayed by his brother's vague description: Fûrûkil described in exquisite detail his bravery _before_ reaching his goal, but only provided vague hints of what he found there. Frustrated, Shum turned to the elders in his clan with his questions: What is the Stone Orc? He was baffled by the mix of answers.

Mozkû, grumpy yet wise, told him it was just a bunch of rocks that looked a little like an Orc, if you were drunk and squinting. Then he cuffed Shum's ear and sent him rolling out of his den. Even more grumpy when questioned by inquisitive pups, Pughronk the Golug-Eater boxed his ears first, then told Shum that it was a stupid bastard Orc who got turned to stone by Elf magic.

The most confusing reply came from Htolalkaar, a withered elder rumored to have seen the Eye back when it was more than just an eye. She stared at Shum with her good eye, the other gone milky white, and sucked her few remaining teeth nervously. Her voice croaked like bullfrogs sliding down a gravel-covered hill when she told him, "'At ain't somet'in' we goes'n looks fer. You just forgets about it, young'un."

"But my brother saw it," Shum protested, only to be shushed emphatically.

"He ain't seen it," she said firmly, an impatient look on her face. She held a wooden mortar in the crook of her withered arm, and ground herbs with a worn pestle. The circular motion was slow, ponderous, as though it pained her, yet she was determined to grind and grind. "Changes yuh, it does. Ain't nobody here's seen it, 'cause they's all too smart tuh go lookin'."

"How do you know he ain't seen it?"

"Ain't nobody brags'at they been'ere, lad," she replied cryptically. "Just you git on outta here, now. Don' go lookin' fer trouble."

His brow creased in frustration, Shum pressed, "But what is it?"

Htolalkaar didn't answer for several long moments, her one eye so intensely focused that Shum began to fidget. She didn't blink once in several heartbeats, he was certain. Then she muttered, "Yuh don' wanna know," and shooed him away. Not wanting another thump to his sensitive ears, he scampered out of her den and found he was able to breathe again.

The little Goblin's thoughts were wiped from his mind when he turned a bend in the path around an abutment of rock and learned that what his brother had said was true: _You'll know it when yuh see it._

Before him lay a small, moonlit sward of grass and, oddly, wildflowers swaying in the light breeze. Shum feared stepping into the open, and remained frozen on the edge. The grassy space stretched before him only a dozen yards at most, to end at a high cliff face. On three sides, the mountain seemed to hunch over this space like a miser protecting its most prized treasure. Shum shivered, and his breath came in sharp, rapid gasps. His foot inched forward, yet his heart hammered and his palms began to sweat.

In the shadow of a gnarled old tree at the base of the cliff directly in front of him, Shum made out a pale figure, and he stopped breathing entirely. Eyes wide and hands trembling, the little Goblin stared unblinking for several moments. His entire body tensed, ready to spring back down the path. A thousand exhortations to flee crowded into his mind, yet his legs were leaden, his feet rooted.

The figure didn't move. Shum drew a shuddering breath. _It's called 'stone' cause it's made of stone_ , he reminded himself. _Don't be a dumb pup. Ain't nothin' to be afraid of. Just a big rock._ Yet the little Goblin's senses weren't so certain. The feel of this place seemed to beckon, yet the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He didn't know which one to obey. After a moment of indecision, the thought of his brother's smirk at his failure filled him with determination, and he took a few tentative steps closer.

Whether the lump of rock was alive or not, Shum wasn't taking chances. "Just gonna make a bit of a fire," he announced shakily. He picked a spot in the center and flattened the tall grass to prepare a little firepit. Though warnings clamored in his head, he carried on; fire would give him light and a weapon. His trusty skinning knife seemed inadequate now that he was here.

Once the knotted grass and leaves were crackling merrily, Shum forced himself to look at the Stone Orc. He kept his distance at first, squinting through the heat haze over the fire. His brow furrowed, and he slowly rose to a crouch. Creeping closer on all fours, Shum eyed the figure warily. He stopped moving frequently, staring intently at the Stone Orc, looking for a twitch, listening for a sigh. There was nothing, and he continued.

When he was finally close enough to reach out and touch the stone, he laughed at himself for being so afraid. The flickering firelight revealed that the carving resembled an Orc seated with legs folded, its back against the cliff, head bowed slightly forward, and arms resting on its knees. The hands were large and gnarled as if with great age; the face, though pitted from weathering, appeared lined and slack-skinned. Shum could make out the sharply-pointed ears, the out-thrust lower jaw, one worn tusk exposed, a blunt nose, and closed eyes. Its expression was relaxed, as if it were sleeping. Shum slowly backed away.

He took several deep breaths to calm himself, for he realized the moon hadn't risen. He had a long night ahead of him, but at least he'd gotten here at night; he didn't relish the idea of having to wait until nightfall to do what he came for. The longer Shum stared at the immobile figure, the more alive it looked, compelling him to speak of his intentions.

"Erm... Just gonna... sit wit' yuh fer a bit, all right?" he muttered with embarrassment, inwardly scolding himself for being silly. He couldn't say why, but he got the feeling his approach was acceptable. Swallowing with difficulty, Shum forced his feet to move again.

Something changed as he hunkered down to sit opposite the figure. The wind that had been a mere breath in this enclosed dale must have picked up, because he could hear it whispering in the tall grasses, and creaking in the old tree beside the Stone Orc. Glancing up, he frowned, for the tree wasn't moving. Its barren, dead branches were perfectly still. His breath quickened, huffing in his chest as his gaze flicked to the figure's face.

Nothing was different about its expression, yet the little Goblin could feel... something. An eagerness, a drawing in, as of a host welcoming a long-awaited guest. Shum's shoulders hunched forward and he shrunk where he sat, unable to move, for the whispers evoked feelings he didn't expect. His eyes closed of their own accord.

He felt new joy, the happiness of being alive. He had no cares and no worries, for he was loved. Though 'love' was not a word known to the little Goblin, he recognized the sensation, for it was the familiar affection of parent to child, and child to parent. His heart felt light, and a smile crept across his face.

Then the whispers turned cold and angry. Shum recoiled but dared not open his eyes. It was a story like any told around a cookfire back home, he reassured himself; the bad part would end soon. It was the way of things. Except it didn't end; the whispers spoke of pain and darkness, foul words and fell intentions. Confused, Shum almost begged an end.

Then there was sorrow, a sense of betrayal and loss. He felt abandoned and wanted to hide. The little Goblin hugged himself and whimpered.

Then he sighed, resigned. Shoulders relaxing, Shum blinked his eyes open. Muttered sounds in the dale seemed to say, _Hush now. Be brave._ He slowly looked up, and there sat the Stone Orc, unchanged and unmoved.

"'At's you, innit?" Shum breathed, eying the figure suspiciously. The Stone Orc sat impassively before him, neither confirming nor denying. Yet the whispering could still be heard, and Shum closed his eyes again.

Now he tensed, for he felt fear. The muttering wind-words swirled about him like a gale, calling him to battle. Too young to fight, Shum shrunk from the call. Even so, he felt the thrill and excitement as if he were listening to a glorious tale. Except it wasn't glorious; there was sadness as well. Or was it regret? He couldn't be sure.

Then he cowered beneath an even greater fear, not unlike what he felt when the sense of betrayal washed over him. Yet it wasn't quite the same, as though its source were something slightly different. There was a sense of alliance in this fear's presence, though it was an uneasy alliance.

Then the whispers turned urgent, compelling Shum to flee as though the nameless fear, though ally, had come to some dreadful end. The barely-discerned murmurs hissed in his ears, then went silent.

Shum found he'd curled himself into a tight, cowering ball. All he now heard was the crackle of his campfire, and he slowly uncurled. The Stone Orc was as unmoving as ever, yet Shum gasped as though he had run from a terrible fright.

Heart hammering in his thin chest, the little Goblin swallowed hard. Barely heard now, the mutterings made him nervous. There seemed to be eyes all around: watching, seeking. _Hide_ , they seemed to say. _Hide deep_.

Then he felt compressed, buried, desperate. He couldn't breathe, and began to panic. Staring hard at the Stone Orc, he suddenly blinked, and his shoulders sagged with realization.

"Yuh don't like it, do yuh?" he whispered. "'s'why yer here." The murmur sighed, and Shum felt relief. He'd guessed right. "Don't know much else, though," the little Goblin muttered with frustration. There was a pause then, as if to consider his dilemma. No wind sounds came for several moments.

Then there were thoughts. The rustling and murmuring of wind-borne words filled his ears and put more than just feelings into his mind. Shum saw through another's eyes; he was loping along a wooded path. He met another Orc, and felt a great surge of affection.

Then he was in a cave, holding a toothless, mewling Orcling, while another Orc scraped a hide. A fond smile was shared.

Then he was grief-stricken, howling in impotent rage, the other Orc's bleeding and lifeless body in his arms.

Then he was old and withered, stooped over a cookfire in a forest clearing, alone. Beside him were packs and a few weapons. He was running; always running...

Then he was older still, and his feet seemed too heavy to move, yet he dragged first one then the other up a mountain path.

Then he was in the familiar dale, and tending a sapling starved for care in this isolated place. His hands were gnarled and stiff; it hurt to move.

Then he was sitting, looking toward the entrance to the dale. In the periphery of his vision, he could see a strong, mighty tree at his side. He tried to rise with the dawn, but his limbs were too weary. Too heavy.

Then a squat, aging Orc limped into view, gasping from toil and wounded from battle. It held one arm, and a great gash upon its head bled into its swollen eye. The tree was old and dying. His arms would not lift in greeting; his lips could not curve in a welcoming smile.

Then he saw himself entering the dale, and Shum was so startled the image was lost, and he was alone once more. He stared at the Stone Orc in sudden terror, his eyes wide, his breaths sharp and rapid. Without sparing another moment for the whispers that kept coming, the little Goblin leapt to his feet and ran from the dale.

Shumfûrz's journey back to the caverns in which his clan lived took several days. He lost count quickly, for his thoughts were filled with guesses about what he experienced, and questions. So many questions.

He had no opportunity to ask them, for his worried parents scolded him thoroughly for his lengthy absence. Though he was cuffed soundly and confined in his corner, Shumfûrz voiced no complaint. He was relieved by the solitude, allowing him to think some more.

Until he was cuffed once again.

"Oi, Shum," Fûrûkil barked, squatting next to his little brother. "Only just heard. Yer back, eh?" Shum nodded, but said nothing. "So, did yuh find it? What's it look like, eh? Just, yuh know, so I know you been there."

Shumfûrz looked up at his brother and saw the eager light in the older Goblin's eyes. He saw something else as well; beyond Fûrûkil's shoulder he could see the opening of Htolalkaar's lodgings. She was standing there with a stoney expression on her face. He seemed to see for the first time how bent and old she was, how she held her near-useless arm close to her side, and the large scar over her blinded eye. Shumfûrz dipped his chin slightly. The aged Goblin responded in kind, then slowly retreated into the darkness of her den.

Turning back to his brother, Shumfûrz replied, "Didn't find nothin'."


End file.
